


Crazy Stupid Shit

by dragonspell



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:38:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey just likes cock.  It’s not fucking rocket science or anything.  He gets a little crazy around it, that’s all, starts thinking stupid things.  And if it’s only Ian Gallagher’s cock that gets him so revved up lately, it doesn’t fucking matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy Stupid Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season 3. Marked as underage because Ian is still technically underage.

Mickey’s brain doesn’t work so well around Ian’s cock. That’s gotta be it. When Ian’s pants are around his ankles, Mickey’s brain normally gets stuck in a loop of “yes” and “please” with maybe a “harder” or “faster”, though sometimes it’s “slower, oh Christ, yes” especially when Ian slides his dick in real slow and it scrapes along Mickey’s prostate for just fucking _years_. There are also the times that Mickey has to say “For Christ’s sake, Gallagher, stop fucking teasing me!” but, secretly, Mickey enjoys that. He likes it when Ian grabs his hips and makes like he’s going to fuck Mickey good and hard but instead slides it through his crack or under his balls until Mickey’s shaking like a crack addict in need of a fix—namely, a cock up his ass. He usually makes such a mess, all sweat and come and body parts that don’t seem to want to work right anymore.

And when that happens, Ian grins and says something about how he must have really enjoyed that and Mickey flips him off because words are a higher level thinking skill and his brain's been flash fried like a junkie's. Here's your brain, here's your brain on dick, right? Then Ian will cuddle up beside him until the shakes go away, his hands gentle in Mickey’s hair and Mickey doesn’t have to pretend that he doesn’t like it. He can just lie there and let it happen and feel like he matters for once—that someone in the world actually gives a fuck about him. Cares about him. Maybe even…

Stupid, crazy shit. Mickey just likes cock. It’s not fucking rocket science or anything. He gets a little crazy around it, that’s all, starts thinking stupid things. And if it’s only Ian Gallagher’s cock that gets him so revved up lately, it doesn’t fucking matter. Mickey’s got a thing for redheads, too, all pale skin and freckles. Ian’s Irish white and his cock’s the size of Rhode Island with a freckle dotting the head. Of course Mickey’s going to have a bit of a thing. It doesn’t fucking mean anything besides the fact that Ian checks off all the boxes for him.

Ian’s also sweet, which is something that’s all too fucking rare around here. Fuck, it’s rare anywhere. Ian’s the kind of guy that would give you his coat when it was fucking freezing out and be all gallant and shit. He’s also the kind of guy that buys you chocolate for no real reason and doesn’t even get any for himself.

Ian’s the kind of guy that kisses like the world’s ending tomorrow.

Mickey likes kissing, too. He never thought he’d like kissing guys—he never liked kissing girls, after all—and, really, he doesn’t. It’s just Ian. Fucking Gallagher. Christ. Mickey must have thought about it a hundred times before he actually did it, preoccupied by it like he was some fucking Disney character or some shit. When Ian had told him that the old guy that he was fucking kissed, all Mickey could think was “I want to kiss you, too.” It had been this ache in his chest, painful like maybe he was going to have a heart attack or something.

What the fuck did that mean?

And when Mickey finally did, before he got shot, it hadn’t been like he’d thought it was going to be. It hadn’t been like anything. It had been something new, something exciting—something terrifying. He’d popped half a stiffie just from touching his lips to Gallagher’s and then had to run away to rob the damn house with it bouncing between his legs. Fucking Christ.

Ian’s just so sweet. He _makes_ you want to kiss him. He makes you want to let him cuddle you like a teddy bear, or run his hands through your hair like you’re some kind of chick. It’s just some kind of weird superpower that Ian’s got. So, Mickey doesn’t think anything of it anymore when he lets Ian slide over top of him and start kissing him like it’s going to last until next century.

Ian starts out so slow, a little brushing of his mouth to Mickey’s, real light like he’s afraid that Mickey’s going to break—like he hasn’t thrown Mickey into more than a few walls and done him hard and dirty. And Mickey—fuck. Mickey’s body goes limp except the one place that’s now rock hard and he just wants to lay there and let Ian do whatever he wants. Ian inches forward by degrees until it’s a definite pressure, then lets his tongue flick out and trace the edge of Mickey’s lips. Mickey opens immediately, both in answer and because he can’t fucking breath, and Ian laughs before slipping his tongue inside Mickey’s mouth. Mickey grinds his hips against Ian’s. At this rate, he’s going to fucking come before they even get their pants off and how fucking sad would that be?

This is all Mickey’s been able to think about since Ian sat down with him on the couch, beer in hand. Mickey had watched Ian take a swallow, lips wrapping around the bottle like some kind of porn star, and he’d had to wet his own lips because they were suddenly bone dry. His tongue had swiped across his lower lip, reminding him of what it felt like to kiss Ian, and then Ian had met Mickey’s eyes with that little smile of his and, yeah, Mickey had known that he and Ian were definitely going to bang tonight. They were going to fuck until they collapsed into a sweaty pile wherever the hell they were because they didn’t fucking care. It was only a matter of time before the movie stopped being a pretense and just became background noise.

Ian had set down his beer and then quietly set down Mickey’s too, and Mickey had licked his lips again because he’d wanted it. He’d wanted it so fucking bad. Ian and his cock and his sweetness and his kisses. Mickey had wanted it all and he didn’t care how crazy or stupid it was.

Ian rolls his hips, pushing against Mickey like they’re fucking already and Mickey doesn’t bother to hold back his moans. They’re alone; he can do that. Ain’t nobody around to come running if Mickey gets too loud. Ian pants and plunges his tongue into Mickey’s throat, twisting and twining with Mickey’s own tongue and it’s wet and sloppy and Mickey doesn’t fucking care. His hands cup Ian’s head and hold him close because he wants to crawl up inside of Ian right now and live there, in Sugar Candy Mountain, where there’s nothing but rainbows and little floating hearts and maybe a unicorn or two. It’s the only explanation for Ian. There’s no one that’s this sweet, this nice, this patient—no one like that that’s interested in Mickey, at least. Not when they could have the world.

Mickey wipes a few beads of sweat out of his eyes _(shut the fuck up)_ and focuses on the slow slide of his lips against Ian’s, of the glide of their tongues together. They’re starting to speed up, lose their gentleness, and Mickey understands why Ian started out slow. He kind of wants this to last forever, too.

Except Ian’s hands are running up his stomach and his chest, fingers teasing over the hard nubs of his nipples and Mickey’s starting to overheat. “Christ,” he mutters in between kisses. He runs his wet lips over Ian’s cheek. “Fucking yeah…” Ian’s starting to pound Mickey’s ass real good, bucking his hips forward like he would if they were naked, and Mickey can feel Ian’s big cock rubbing against him. Mickey’s ass isn’t feeling the greatest just now, but who the fuck cares? Mickey will worry about that later; it’s not like it’s the first time he’s been shot. “Clothes,” he gasps, because there are too many layers in the way.

Ian sits up, leaving him on the couch and strips off his shirt. He’s so fucking gorgeous. He’s cut, with little bumps and grooves everywhere that Mickey likes to run his fingers through. His hands trace over Ian’s chest, spreading out to cover as much area as possible as they work their way down to the little grooves by Ian’s groin. “Fuck…”

Mickey’s hands are yanked away and he wants to say something but his shirt is being dragged over his head and then Ian’s back on top of him, skin to skin and it’s much better than before. Mickey digs his fingers into the hard muscle of Ian’s back and pants into his ear as Ian kisses his way down Mickey’s neck. Their pants tangle around their legs and they both struggle and squirm to get them off, rolling back and forth. Mickey gets a foot against Ian’s and shoves them down to his ankles where Ian finishes kicking them off, and Ian damn near rips Mickey’s sweats dragging them off him. The pants scrape over the wounds on Mickey’s backside and he hisses in pain, but when Ian looks like he’s about to stop and ask Mickey if he’s okay or something, Mickey forces it back and pulls Ian into a kiss until Ian forgets all about it and gets back to the fucking.

Ian’s cock slots in next to Mickey’s, one of Ian’s big hands encircling them both and Mickey thumps his head back against the couch cushion. One of his own hands feathers across Ian’s and he groans, rocking his hips upward, shoving his cock into Ian’s hard grip. His eyes flutter open and he sees Ian watching him, mouth open like Mickey’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen and Mickey can’t fucking take it. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus, tries to make it last. Each flex of his hips is somewhat painful but it’s blending in with the pleasure so much that Mickey can barely tell which is which anymore. Ian’s teeth nip under Mickey’s jaw and there’s a whine that Mickey would swear came from him except it sounded way too girly. Then Ian rubs a finger over the head of Mickey’s dick, drawing out a goddamned whimper. “Fuck, Mickey,” Ian whispers and Mickey stops worrying about what sounds he’s making or not making. All that matters is that Ian’s above him, turned on, and looking at Mickey like he’s a steak dinner at one of those yuppie places up on the Northside. Mickey whines again, all high-pitched and gasping when Ian gives the head of his dick another little swirl.

“Ian…” Mickey runs his hands over Ian’s back, feeling the stretch and pull as Ian fucks his own hand, sliding his cock over Mickey’s again and again. Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck this is, but he’s about to come. He hooks his one leg over the back of couch and lets the other fall off the side, spreading himself for Ian because he likes how it feels. He likes being able to hold himself open for Ian. There’s another twinge of pain but it joins in with everything else and, fucking Christ, that’s good.

Something wet wiggles against Mickey’s ass, then pushes inside—smaller than Ian’s cock but more flexible, and it crooks upward, pressing against his prostate and sending Mickey over. He pumps his hips into Ian’s grip, hard and fast and out of control. His body arches against Ian’s, everything tight as pleasure rockets through his nerves. 

When he finally comes down, everything’s tingling, there’s come splatters on his stomach, and Ian’s finger is still in his ass. “Fucking Christ, Ian…” he mutters, lolling his head to the side. His eyes slowly focus on the littered coffee table. Fuck, he wants to do that again.

Ian pulls his finger out, leaving Mickey empty, and fucks his own hand. Each stroke is sliding against Mickey’s spent cock, sending pleasurable little shocks through Mickey’s body, though they’re edging towards painful. Mickey runs his palms over Ian’s chest, cupping his pecs. “That’s it… Come on,” he whispers, coaxing Ian along to the finish line. “Fuck, yeah…” Ian’s so fucking sexy—there’s a flush working its way up his pale neck and down his shoulders and there’s enough sweat that he feels damp to the touch. Mickey wants to lick him, tongue flicking out to wet his lips again. He wants to taste every bit of Ian’s body, leave marks and then suck him off until Ian’s gasping above him. He wants Ian to fuck him into next week, torn-up ass or no.

He wants to stay up and kiss Ian until dawn. _Stupid_.

Ian’s face morphs into a grimace and hot slick pumps onto Mickey’s chest as Ian convulses over him. Mickey moans with Ian, turned on, and his cock gives a painful jerk as it tries to rise again. Ian’s mouth goes slack and Mickey thinks that he’s beautiful. Christ, he’s gorgeous. Mickey wants to help Ian come down off the high of orgasm, but he can’t stop staring.

When Ian bends over to kiss him, Mickey surges upward to meet him. They share air between them, still too turned on to breathe right, and their tongues keep spilling out of their mouths. It’s sloppy, dirty, and real, but Mickey’s floating on a cloud. He feels high and he never wants to come back down.

Ian pulls back, his eyes skimming over Mickey’s body, and a slow grin cracks over his face. He’s got to like what he sees, right? That’s what that means. Gotta be. Mickey takes a few deep breaths and tries to get his breathing back under control because he’s feeling like he’s a steam engine at the moment. Ian’s mess is still warm on his chest, mixing with Mickey’s, and Mickey raises a hand to touch it. It’s like a mark—like Ian claimed him—and incredibly fucking intimate. Mickey wonders what it would taste like.

“I’ll get a towel,” Ian says, sliding off the couch. Mickey doesn’t say anything; he’s too busy thinking stupid shit again. Should he?

His fingers swipes through Ian’s come and Mickey licks his lips. He pops it into his mouth and sucks it clean. He can’t figure out if he likes it or not, thinks maybe he should try again, but before he can, Ian’s there with the towel. Ian wipes off Mickey’s chest, still smiling, and then gives Mickey another soft kiss. Mickey sighs and wraps his arms around Ian’s neck to kiss Ian back as his heart does a funny little flip.

Mickey doesn’t know what this is, but he knows that he doesn’t want it to end. He knows that it’s more than what he’s been telling himself, but he also knows that it can’t be. He’s Mickey Milkovich and things just don’t work out for him like that.

There he goes again, thinking that stupid, crazy shit. This is just a physical thing, right? So why is he thinking so much about it? Mickey kisses Ian harder wanting to distract himself, to forget who he is for a little while. Ian can do it because Mickey’s brain doesn’t work so well around Ian. Mickey gets too caught up in Ian, sidetracked by Ian’s lips and hands and cock. With Ian, he doesn’t have to be Mickey Milkovich and wanting things he’s not allowed to name. 

And that’s the problem. One of the first things that a Milkovich learns, besides when to duck and how to make yourself scarce when Pops got into the heavy stuff, is that there are some things that are better off buried.

Milkovichs don’t have the fucking luxury of thinking about such stupid shit, like whatever the fuck it is that makes Mickey’s stomach clench when Ian smiles at him. Bad things happen when they do.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Crazy Stupid Shit | written by dragonspell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165841) by [Tipsy_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty)




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